


Maybe Wonderful (Magic Means Nothing Remix)

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-20
Updated: 2010-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This though, following Frank from slide to monkey bars to swings, felt like something natural. Something good and sweet; something even he couldn't fuck up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe Wonderful (Magic Means Nothing Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redsnake05](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I never knew I needed you (until you told me so)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/75140) by [redsnake05](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05). 



The air blew cold through the city, shivering up into the sleeves of Brendon's hoodie. A car honked as it sped past, headlights like spotlights in neon, illuminating the street. Brendon chased after it, full of too much energy for the hour.

Snow fell around him in big, thick flakes, powder white and downy. They tasted like winter on Brendon's tongue, full of Christmases and smiling faces and places far away from Nevada and home. Brendon caught fat flakes on his tongue and let them melt against his mouth, young and free and careless.

"You're going to get run over," Spencer called from the door of the bar. "Stop being a freak and come inside."

Tour was almost over, and the band was restless. Ryan was driving Spencer slowly crazy, and Spencer was snapping at little things, and Brendon felt himself crawling up the walls at night, unable to sleep and unable to settle down. Home was still a few months away, but damn if he didn't feel every mile between it and him closing in with each day.

The bus was parked in the lot of some shitty hotel, close enough to some shitty, nameless bar. Ryan had gone to it like a bloodhound, sniffing out the familiar scent of booze and easy women. If he were letting himself think about it, Brendon would be worried. He'd be terrified about the addiction squirming under Ryan's skin like a time bomb, waiting for the right mix of desperation and whiskey.

As it was, Brendon kept catching glimpses of Spencer's hand on Ryan's arm, reeling him in and palming liquor out for diluted beer. Not a fix, maybe, but a solution for the night.

"You look familiar," someone said next to him. When Brendon turned to look, there was an unopened bottle of Guinness in his face. He took it gratefully, popping the top off before letting the rush of excited embarrassment wash over him.

"Brendon," he said, holding out his free hand. "I played the Rex tonight."

"Oh, yeah? Good show. I'm Frank." Frank took his hand and shook. He grinned, bright and toothy, and sat himself next to Brendon at the booth.

Across the bar, Spencer was talking to a big guy in an even bigger hoodie, one hand on the bar, one reaching up periodically to keep Ryan reigned in. Jon, back on the bus with his baggie of weed and his cell phone stitched against his face, would laugh until Ryan heard him even from that far away.

"So, are you from around here?" Brendon asked. It wasn't an original question, but he'd found that it usually worked. People loved talking about themselves, and Brendon loved to listen. Frank grinned again, flash of teeth in the sallow light of the bar.

"Not really. My band plays tomorrow night." He looked earnest enough that Brendon believed him, even though he couldn't place Frank's face to any band immediately.

Brendon swallowed down his beer and watched the way Frank's fingers tapped against the bar, chipped nail polish sparkling a pale blue against his pink nails. The taste was terrible, but it sent a warm spark down Brendon's spine, chasing away the chill from outside.

They talked idly about places they'd played, drinking beer after beer, the taste slowly dying away. Frank was small and twitchy, loud in a way Brendon wasn't used to. It was charming in a weird way, and with each drink passed his way, Brendon found himself echoing it, freer than he had felt in months.

He'd never be able to remember how, but somehow they found themselves outside, wandering around an empty schoolyard, the last of their beers going cold again as they talked. Frank climbed the jungle gym, all legs and arms and lack of grace, and shouted up into the stars, laughing hard enough to nearly knock himself off balance.

Things had never been easy for Brendon. Not growing up, not leaving home, not finding his place in the Ryan and Spencer show. He'd fought his battles tooth and nail and managed to come out smiling, weary but not beaten, and he had always expected life to go on like that for forever.

This though, following Frank from slide to monkey bars to swings, felt like something natural. Something good and sweet; something even he couldn't fuck up.

Alcohol ran warm through his veins, fighting against the chill of the winter air. His breath was a burst of white like cigarette smoke, there and then gone, Frank's matching it breath for breath. His fingers tingled as he wrapped them around the cold metal links of the swing's chains, sitting himself down. The set shook for a second, and then he was swinging, legs pumping back and forth like he was a child again, hiding out on the playground from his brothers.

Frank hands settled on his back, fanned out against his shoulder blades like wings, and pushed. The rush of wind was freezing against Brendon's cheeks, but he closed his eyes and shouted and let himself go blank. Everyone deserved this feeling of pure, true bliss. Even him.

Frank hopped onto the seat, the toes of his sneakers under Brendon's ass, his hands clutching the chains above Brendon's, and swung them higher with his momentum. They were birds, flying away from everyone but each other.

When they inevitably toppled off, Frank rolled onto Brendon and kissed him, firm and free and nothing but burning warmth against Brendon's freezing mouth. Brendon fell into it, back against the snow, stomach churning with too much beer. It was beautiful. It was magic. It was his and no one else's.

They stumbled back to the hotel, laughing and wet from shoulders to knees, sure to be sick with colds in the morning, and followed the numbers on Brendon's key. He had only been in once, too caught up in Ryan watch to do anything other than dump his bags and go, but the key still fit, and the room was all his, and that was really all that mattered.

When they were inside, Frank pressed him up against the door, hands on his ass, mouth on his. Brendon swallowed down a moan and let himself be dragged to the bed, shedding clothes on his way.

This, he thought, could be the beginning of something beautiful.


End file.
